


The Winter of Our Discontent

by hesperia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesperia/pseuds/hesperia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end it is Jon and his men of the Night's Watch who come to take her back to Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter of Our Discontent

In the end it is Jon and his men of the Night's Watch who comes to take her back to Winterfell. To claim her rightful place in the North. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. It is a saying their father, her father, said often to them as children; at one and twenty and eight and ten, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark are no longer children And that saying means something now, because she is the last of them. 

In Moat Cailin they stop for rest, Sansa deems it unneccesary, she's more than happy to travel through the night. She just wants to be home. The inn is nice enough, and Sansa's gold sees them fed and housed. In her chambers, she and Jon share a meal, silently. 

In honesty Sansa does not know how to act around Jon. Once a brother, now a cousin; once a boy, now a man. He is taller than her, despite her own height, and he has filled out, even Sansa can see that, broad shoulders and a strong back beneath his armor and cloak. 

After they have supped, Jon bids her goodnight, he wants to check on his men before he retires for the night. Sansa nods, she understands the responsibility he has toward them. She wants to ask him to stay, to sit with her and talk of when they were children, but she cannot find her voice, even long after he is gone. 

It is past midnight when the banging on her door comes. Pulling on a nightdress she runs to the door, opening it to find Jon, snow and ice hanging off his cloak and hair.

"What is it?" Sansa asks, leading him to her fire. She adds two more logs, feeding the glowing coals.

"A heavy ice storm, the worst we've seen yet. The horses are gone, froze to death in a matter or minutes." He is frank with her, and she appreciates it. She has seen enough in this lifetime to want a little candor. 

"And the men?" 

"Safe, they are sharing my room and the rest sleep in the kitchen." 

Sansa had heard of the heavy ice storms from her father, air so cold a man could die taking a breath. Helping him with his cloak, Sansa watched Jon undress until he was just in breeches and his soft spun shirt. From the open collar, Sansa could see the dark soft curls on his chest and she had the sudden urge to sink her fingers into them, to feel how soft they were. 

Shaking the thought from her head she poured Jon a tankard of mead, bringing it to him where he still sat by the fire. He took it gratefully, two long gulps, but not enough to truly warm him on the inside. 

"What can we do?" Sansa asked, hoping for answers where she knew there were none. 

"We wait." 

Sansa then poured herself a tankard of mead, though she drank it much more slowly than Jon had done. She felt flush, whether it was from the mead or from the close proximity of this man she barely knew, Sansa was uncertain. 

"You look like him," Jon says, quietly. Even after all this time, she can tell that to speak of her father is as hard for him as it is for her. 

"Everyone always said I looked like my lady mother." 

Jon shook his head. "Like both perhaps, but still, I see him in you." 

"Am I so changed then? From the girl you knew?" Jon smiles at her, and Sansa smiles too. She had been a stupid girl back then, cruel because she thought she should be. "Do you forgive me?" she asks, looking at him. 

"Forgive you?" His brow furrowed. "Sansa you do not need forgiveness. What you have been through, what you have had to do to survive, I would gladly bear it all and more so you never had to." 

Jon words startle her, and she feels her eyes welling with tears. She stands suddenly, walking away from the fire, trying hard to blink them away. Sansa does not know how to reconcile Jon's words with her own feelings that had begun to surface since he'd come for her at the Vale. 

Despite his now legitimate parentage, Jon Snow was still 50% Stark, and he reminded her so deeply of her father. All the things about her father she had loved, all those she had hated, were now manifested in Jon. 

"Sansa..." he is behind her, his hands warm on her arms as he turns her around to face him, but she will not meet his gaze. "Sansa." His voice is deeper, stern, and he puts a hand to her cheek, lifting her face so her eyes meet his. 

"Do you not know much you look like him? How you talk like him? You even walk like he did, Jon."

His thumb brushes over her cheek, wiping away the stray tear that had fallen from her lashes. "It's just me, Sansa. It's just me." 

They meet somewhere in the middle, mouths needy and wanting against each other. Twice married and Sansa has never felt like this. Has never felt the ache she feels now, with Jon's hands on her hips and his mouth on hers. It makes her want more, so much more. 

Away from the fire the room is cold, and Sansa's skin prickles as Jon pulls down the shoulder of her gown. She let's her head fall back, his mouth against her throat, along her collarbone. She laughs softly when he struggles with the laces of her nightdress, and she pushes him away, her own fingers undoing the laces so he can pull it down, strip her until she's naked.

He murmurs her name against her skin, "Sansa, Sansa, Sansa." Dropping to his knees he rests his head against her belly, kisses the soft skin over her hipbones. Sansa feels the strength of her legs slowly giving way and reaches behind her, grabbing the windowsill for purchase when Jon's mouth moves to her cunt. 

He holds her open with thumb and finger, sliding his tongue between her folds, licking at the already slick flesh. Sansa's other hand drops to the back of his head, threading her fingers into his dark thick curls. He is thorough, and ravenous, and Sansa has to push his head away when she comes, presses her fingers against his mouth to slow him, stop him. 

His face is wet from her, and he pulls his shirt over his head, wiping his face before he throws it in the pile with her nightdress. He tastes like her when she kisses him again, but Sansa doesn't mind it, not when his fingers replace where his mouth just was. 

"Jon..." Sansa sighs as he strokes her, slowly. She can feel the hot, hard length of his cock against her belly and she reaches down to circle it with her hand. She likes the feel of it in her grasp, the weight and length of it more impressive than anything Sansa has known or seen. 

He picks her up, her legs hanging over his arms as he pushes her back against the wall, pushes into her. He tries to hold himself still, to let her adjust to his size, though Sansa's not sure she ever could. 

"By the fire," Sansa says, pushing him away slightly. "It's warmer." She pulls the furs from the bed down onto the floor in front of the fire, stretching out over them as Jon joins her. He settles down behind her, their bodies now flush against one another as he takes himself in hand, sliding into her again. 

They move together, his hands on her breasts and her hands clenched into the fur beneath them. He presses his mouth to the back of her neck, his nose buried in the soft wisps of auburn hair at her nape. When he comes, Jon seizes against her, buries his face against her skin and holds her tight. 

Winter has come, of that Sansa is certain, but for the first time in her life, she is no longer scared of it. _Let it come_ , she thinks, sinking back against Jon, _let it come_.


End file.
